Step into a restaurant kitchen in the early morning hours and you will find a machine of dull silver and aluminum-can grey. Its moving parts are meat slicers, oven doors, dish washing machines, and flesh and blood. Men and women, fresh from their beds, stand shoulder to shoulder in the uniform of pressed whites. Hidden are the rock tee shirts, tattoos, and scars from sharp knives. Bandannas and skullcaps conceal the full glory of a multi-color Mohawk, spaghetti curls, and the zig-zagging of a buzz cut.
The light is bright and the polished steel hurts tired eyes. In the kitchen, there are few words exchanged. Covered paper coffee cups and Mexican sweet breads sit untouched. The slicing of onions, the trimming of vegetables, the deboning of fish, and the stirring of stockpots require mindfulness and patience. Every motion is a working meditation. Everything in its place is the unspoken mantra of the kitchen.
Before customers arrive, the world inside the kitchen is deep-forest quiet. Then comes the axe to that serenity, with the rat-a-tat-tat sound of the ticket printer spitting out an arms length of orders. Despite exhaustion from early morning prep time, a busy service gives the kitchen staff a boost of energy that allows them to push through.
Maybe this is a culinary preamble you’re used to hearing. But what if I told you the kitchen I describe is in the corner diner you go to when you don’t want to dress up, or at a culinary school you’ve never read about, or a restaurant that’s never been photographed by a very-famous-photographer?
Is a chef not a chef, even if you don’t recognize them? Why can’t we celebrate the prep-cook? Food bloggers may be champions of ingredients, farmers, cooking techniques, specialty food makers and celebrity chefs—but what about remembering the underdogs for their humility and hard work and commitment to making our daily food?